The Harry List
by r4ven3
Summary: Set in Series 9, a month after Harry's proposal. Harry is still hurting, and Ruth has made a list... a Harry List.


_**A/N: This is a one chapter offering which crept up on me in the early hours, and just wouldn't go away. Just a filler while I try to finish my next multi-chapter fic which is getting to be longer than I'd anticipated.**_

**oOo**

Harry contemplates pouring himself another drink, but as much as he craves the oblivion it will bring, his liver won't thank him, nor will his brain, no doubt short of a few cells due to his over-imbibing in the fruits of malted barley too often and for too long. Swings and roundabouts.

He longs to be able to forget about her, to push thoughts of her to the back of his mind, the place where exists such things as shopping lists and dry cleaning receipts, but that would be like forgetting to breathe. There seems little point in going to bed, only to lie awake listening to the echo of her words repeating themselves in a never-ending loop, tolling the end to what-might-have-been.

_I can't, Harry. _

_Can you even picture it? Us in a little house in Sussex? _ Well, yes, I can.

_I think we've forfeited the chance for that sort of life. _

_We couldn't be more together than we are right now._

What gives you the right, Ruth, to close the door on us? And how would marrying me be a lie? How could you and I _together_ ever be a lie? How dare you make this decision on _our_ behalf. Dream a little, Ruth. See us as we could be, not as you fear we might become.

Then he feels the anger, but anger is good. Anger is better than the excruciating pain of loss, the loss of what they could be, what he imagined them as being, weaving its way into his dark, dark blanket of other losses. He can manage the adrenalin-filled surge of anger.

Then he hears the single ring of the doorbell, and he immediately knows who it is. It's 10.44 pm on a Friday night. He has conjured her, called for her. _See, Ruth? See how connected we are?_

He considers ignoring her. He's certain it's her, but curiosity wins, so after the third ring he opens the door. Seeing her face, his anger immediately leaves him.

"Can I come in, Harry?" she says, her eyes flicking up only briefly to meet his.

He holds the door open to allow her inside. She looks cold. Her nose is red, but the rest of her face is almost blue. She also looks upset, nervous, distracted.

"Would you like a drink? Wine? Tea, maybe?"

"Wine would be nice."

"Red or white?" He knows he's stalling. It's just that he's giving himself time to become numb again.

"White sounds fine."

He puts the two glasses of white wine on the coffee table, and sits in his armchair, indicating for her to sit on the sofa. He briefly wonders why he even let her in. He can't see anything good coming from this. They each sip their wine in silence. It is not an awkward silence, but the air between them crackles with the energy of unspoken words and unfulfilled longing, as it always does when they're alone in a confined space.

"You see, Harry," she begins, not looking at him, "I've been thinking. I haven't been entirely honest with you." _No shit._ "I've made this list. It's a list of things I ... we ... haven't done, and I suppose -"

"I was under the impression there is no `we', Ruth. Isn't that what you told me? A month ago? After I asked you …. after I proposed."

"Well, yes, but ….. I've been thinking about that, too..."

"About my proposal? I know it wasn't what you wanted to hear ….."

"It's not that, Harry. It's not that at all. Can you just listen?" Ruth, agitated, takes what could only be termed a swig from her glass of chardonnay. _That's a decent drop, Ruth, don't gulp it down …. savour it, enjoy it._ "I need for you to listen, Harry. I always feel … uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing ….. especially with you. I need you to promise me you'll listen to what I have to say. It's important."

He nods, recognising he's being churlish – again.

"I've been thinking a lot since …... since then … and I now realise that the reason I said no to you, and that I thought we were close enough at work was ….."

He can see that her hands are wringing, but this time she's twisting between her fingers a sheet of paper. He hadn't seen her take that out, either from her bag, which she left in the entrance hall, or the pocket of her coat, now hanging in the hall.

"What I'm trying to say is …. that we …. haven't done a lot of things together ….. outside work, that is. I've made this list, and ….. I just think that you should know about it. In case you still want ..."

_Oh, I want alright. If only you knew what it is I want._

"I've loved you for at least six years that I know of, Ruth. I'm not likely to fall out of love with you in the short space of a month."

"You see, that's just it. It's ….. this, what we have …."

"Do we still have something, Ruth? Because from where I'm sitting, it's just me always longing for you, and you finding a myriad of reasons for us to not be together."

"Harry …... _please_ …. let me finish. We haven't had a courtship, and we haven't done the things together that other couples do."

"Ruth, I seem to remember that you turned me down when I asked you to have dinner with me a second time. I _was_ trying to court you."

"_Harry!_ This list I have here," she holds out her wrinkled sheet of paper, and then draws it back, laying it on her thigh, and smoothing it with the palm of her hand, her head bent, eyes concentrating on the task. "This list is some of the things – activities, if you like – I thought I'd like to have done with you, but didn't."

"Like a bucket list."

She smiles at that, a proper smile, not just one which pushed her mouth into a grimace which shows her teeth, making her look like she's about to vomit. "I've called it my Harry List." She looks up at him through her eyelashes. He can't resist that look, although he knows he must. What is happening between them right now is not safe. But, as always when it comes to Ruth, he can't resist finding out …. more.

"Tell me about your list, Ruth."

"Well," she begins, taking a big breath, and smiling at him again, openly this time. "I've written down some of the things we should have done, may have done, had we had a normal courtship."

"So, Ruth, are you saying that you want a courtship? You're opening the door on that?"

"Yes. That's what I'm saying."

Harry sighs, and leans back in his chair. This is what he's wanted for at least six years, but he knows that a courtship with Ruth will bring him more pain. He's not sure he wants to try again.

"So, Ruth," he begins, somewhat unwisely he feels, "what is on your Harry List?" He can't help smiling at the name she's given it.

"I have a lot of things on the list," she begins.

"Sex?"

Again her eyes only flick up at him through her eyelashes. "Of course. But that's quite a way down the list. It's second last before going away together – to Europe."

"The Grand Tour?"

"Yes. The Grand Tour."

"So, you think sex is not important?"

"No, I think sex is very important, but there are other things which we need to do first."

"Like?"

"Like holding hands. We've never held hands, Harry. We've never danced, or exchanged a passionate kiss. We've never woken up together."

"But we've never had sex."

"Christ, Harry, we don't have to have sex in order to wake up together." Ruth is almost shouting. "I'd better go," she says. "I knew this would be a waste of time."

Harry is torn between letting her go – _again_ – and finding a way of making her stay. He quickly turns to his stereo system and turns on the radio. He has it set permanently to a station which plays old songs from the 50's and 60's. He turns the volume down a little and then reaches out a hand to Ruth.

"Dance with me, Ruth."

She turns around to see the look in his eyes – loving, not teasing – and she drops her paper, her list, on the coffee table, and reaches out to take his hand.

On this moment their lives turn.

Harry draws her to him, slides his arm around her back, and holds their joined hands against his chest, his hand curled protectively around hers. Then they slowly dance – sort of. Their feet shuffle, from side to side, then back a bit, then forward, but neither is concerned about the dance steps.

"See?" he says. "We're dancing _and_ holding hands."

Ruth nods, but doesn't answer him. She is buried in his arms. She has found her Perfect Place To Be. She wishes she'd been brave enough to do this years ago. This place feels right. His hands are warm, and he has bent his head so that she feels the slight rasp of beard growth as he rests his cheek against her own. Their bodies fit together, like they'd been hewn from the same piece of flesh. Harry's heart beats rapidly beneath their hands, and she is sure he can hear hers over the music. It thumps inside her so she expects her ribs may crack at any time.

The song changes. She recognises this one. Her parents used to dance to it. They had it on an 78 rpm record which they'd sometimes play on Saturday nights, dancing around the kitchen table entwined in one another's arms, while she'd sit under the table watching their feet glide around, together, but apart.

_See the pyramids along the Nile_

_Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle_

_But just remember, darling, all the while_

_You belong to me._

Harry pulls her closer. She feels his arm grasp her around her waist, drawing her against him. His head pulls away from hers, she looks up …... and he reaches down to kiss her. She thinks of pulling away, it's too soon …. but …. _God_, he's good. His lips caress hers, she opens her mouth slightly, then more. They're no longer dancing, really. They're standing still, rocking a little, in Harry's living room, romantic music on the radio, and Harry is kissing her. He's kissing her passionately, and she can feel herself falling into him. Their tongues find one another, and they slowly touch, then entwine. Both her arms are around his neck, and one of her hands seeks his hair, where it curls against his collar. She can feel Harry's body responding to the kiss. She doesn't care. If they end up in bed together, then that will be fine with her. She wants this. Her body was tingling before, but now it's on fire. Her body, his body, they were made to -

He takes his lips from hers and buries his face in her neck, his lips opening while his tongue circles her pulse point. Ruth lets out a gasp. Why hadn't he told her he was so …... so _good_? So ... fucking ... good. If he can kiss like this, then she can only imagine how well he must fuck. Ruth can't believe she's just thought the word `fuck' twice in the space of a few seconds.

One of Harry's hands has moved to her breast. Even through two layers of clothing and a bra, his fingers send lightning bolts through her body. She sighs heavily …... and relaxes completely, sinking further into him, his arousal hard against her abdomen.

And then Harry pulls away, dropping his hands from her, and leaves the room.

She watches him march – yes, march – out of the room. She feels, she feels …... She waits, confused, bewildered, aroused – God, yes – and devastated. "Harry?" she says, venturing towards the doorway through which he'd disappeared.

When she reaches the doorway to the dining room, she sees him in the half-light, leaning against the wall beside the kitchen door. His arms are crossed, and his face is unreadable. He is wearing his Grid face. He is also still visibly aroused. They stand like that, watching one another, until at last Harry speaks.

"How do you feel, Ruth?"

"What .. what do you mean?"

"How do you feel now? Tell me. Tell me the truth or leave. I need you to be truthful. How did it feel when I walked away?"

Ruth _feels_, and her eyes fill with tears. She brushes the back of her hand across them, telling herself to grow up.

"How – do – you – _feel_?" Harry sounds angry.

"I feel … lost, Harry. I feel," Ruth gulps back more tears. "I feel abandoned, and rejected, and _fuck you, Harry!"_

Ruth covers the distance between them in no more than a second or two, and then both fists are pummelling his chest, and she is crying and swearing, using words she didn't know she even knew. She feels his arms go around her, and in one last attack, she head-butts his chest and cries, "You made me love you again, and then you left me!"

After a while, her crying stops, and her body sags against him. He is holding her close, but not too close. "Do you know why I did that, Ruth?" His voice is different now, not cold, but crooning, his voice is again honey. "When you left to go into exile, I know you were hurt too, but how you felt just now – that feeling of anger, abandonment – that's how I felt when you turned down the second dinner date. When you said no to my proposal, when you said we were as close in our working relationship as we could ever be, that's how it felt for me. I felt lost, too, Ruth. Without you I am lost. Without you I'm just a man, nothing more. Without you, I simply exist. With you, I live. Together, like this, we both live."

She lays her head against his chest, and feels his heart beating for her.

"Ruth," he says after a while, "you know how one of your wishes was that we wake up together …... we could do that in the morning. If you like, that is."

She looks up at him, and smiles. He looks a little blurry through her tears. She nods.

"I'm not asking for sex, Ruth. It's too early for that. Will a cuddle do?"

Ruth pulls away from him, grasps his hand, and leads him towards the stairs.

"If you cuddle as well as you kiss, Harry Pearce, then a cuddle will be just fine."

**oOo**

_**A/N: The song, "You Belong To Me" is one of those old standards from the early 1950's, and I heard it on an episode of "Call The Midwife", and it got stuck in my head. You can check it out on YouTube; Jo Stafford's version is especially beautiful/haunting/oldy-worldy.**_


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